The Haunted Starlet
by Lady Elena Dawson
Summary: After the Titanic disaster, Rose goes on to become a famous actress. During her time on Broadway, she befriends an unknown spirit she claims is Jack. However, is he her dead lover, or something far worse? Titanic/Phantom of the Opera.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Titanic _(1997) or _Phantom of the Opera _(2004).**

**_The Haunted Starlet_  
**

**_By Lady Elena Dawson_**

* * *

The Statue of Liberty stood above her, looming over her lean, fragile frame. Her blue-green eyes were focused solely on the memorial that signified her reborn world, and she wore nothing to protect herself from the rain bearing her down, expect for the clothes on her back. Her red locks, once curly and strikingly hygienic, now hung in loose, frizzy waves down her back. Her thoughts were anything but pleasant and cheerful.

"Your name, please, love?"

The rain did nothing to wash away her sorrows. It was a metaphor for the tears she had shed, and will shed for years to come, if she hadn't turned her heart to stone and refused to let herself cry. She was stubborn and rebellious, and knew in her frigid mind that she would never feel the same love she felt for the man who had set her free.

Yes, Rose DeWitt Bukater was no longer that chained bird struggling to escape from the clutches of high society. He had been her key to her cage; and that's what convinced her to pronounce the words, clear and unquestionable, that came out of her dry, heart-shaped lips.

"Dawson," she said, glancing at the steward, clipboard in hand. "Rose Dawson."

He thanked her, and she continued looking at the copper statue reflecting off the dark clouds. For a second, her lip twitched, but she immediately shut out the need to cry. Her heart was stone, after all. Why break it even more by letting her emotions escape?

_Jack Dawson is dead,_ she kept telling herself. _And he's not coming back._

…

The _Carpathia_ docked in Pier 54 of New York Harbor on April 18, 1912. On board were its passengers and approximately seven hundred _Titanic _survivors. Reporters crowded the harbor, shouting questions and trying to get a heart-throbbing story before one of their competitors. Off on the side stood small groups of people, shivering in the cold with dreadful looks on their faces; the lists of those who had survived and those who had perished had not yet been revealed.

The newborn Rose Dawson, née DeWitt Bukater, stepped off the ship with the rest of the few steerage survivors. Her mind whirled with thoughts and memories that threatened to overwhelm her if she didn't find a place to stay soon; since the disaster, her sleeping patterns had been tampered with.

Nightmares of seeing her dead lover sink into the bottomless ocean haunted her along with the screams of help from the people around her. The frigid waters pierced her skin, numbing her every organ. His hands were so cold, much colder than hers. He still bore the handcuffs broken of their chain, an unfriendly reminder of what her ex-fiancé was capable of.

Of course, she hadn't seen Cal since his attempt of searching for her on the rescue ship. He had come down to steerage, looking tattered and his dark hair out of place, looking for her. He had looked around for a minute at the most, turned around, and walked back up to his rightful place. The chance of her survival in his mind was close to zero.

Meanwhile, Rose had hid behind a plaid blanket, the same exact one she was given after being pulled out of the water, her eyes holding the haunting images of her dead Jack. If she hadn't let him go, it would've been harder to leave and save herself; otherwise, she would've been so captivated by the sight of his dead, blue body, she would've thrown the whistle into the water and swam back, holding on to him until she was a block of ice, too.

So focused was she on the memories of the past few days, she was able to push past the reporters and the countless clipboards being thrown in front of her, on past the harbor. She only stopped once she was in front of a quiet inn. She was surprised she hadn't noticed the looks of dread and despair on the waiting families; no, she had kept walking, shoving desperately, heartache and sleep deprivation making her pushy and careless.

A sign in the window said, "We take in _Titanic_ survivors for free!" Lips pursed, Rose pushed the door open and asked for a room, barely noticing her surroundings or the observant men around her, until she was in her room and fallen asleep on the bed.

…

Rose woke up the next morning, surprised that the world was still turning. She had another nightmare last night, the one of Jack's body sinking into the abysmal ocean. Sighing deeply, she got up and decided to wash up. Never had she felt so dirty in her whole life.

She took a bath and washed her hair without a single thought penetrating her mind. She did everything with a quiet, lonely sadness. If she didn't think about what happened, then she wouldn't cry; and if she didn't cry, she would never have to feel emotion again.

Love, especially. The inevitable question – _how can I ever love again?_ – confused her scrambled mind into a mushy, fried pulp.

Drying her hair, she opened the closet to see what the caring landlady had given her. She remembered the blonde woman, named Mrs. Mary Johnson, knock on her door last night before she had fallen asleep. Rose, being silent, pretended not to hear her. She knew ignoring someone who was trying so hard to help was rude on her part, but she still hadn't recovered. In fact, she had no idea if she would _ever _recover.

Mrs. Johnson had come inside anyway, a heavy line forming between her eyebrows. Rose was clearly awake, but was unresponsive on the bed. She wondered what Rose's story was, but decided not to pry and just hung the dress and nightgown up in the closet. She took one last peak at the beautiful redhead, wondered if she had lost a boy, and closed the door, banishing the thoughts from her mind. After all, she had a business to run, and one of the rules was to never pry into her customers' personal lives.

Rose's well-manicured fingers touched the hem of the silky lilac dress. It resembled the one she had been wearing – excusing the wrinkles and musty smell – except it was simpler with a basic color and plain white sash. She stripped herself of the fluffy robe and slipped it on, feeling the softness of the fabric on her skin. The inn was middle-class, but it sure was nicer than the other five-star hotels she had stayed at.

Combing through her wet hair, she forced herself to look at her eyes through the mirror. They were sunken in with small dark circles, clearly haunted by the historic sinking. She closed them and looked away, ashamed to have let herself get into such a horrid state. She finished combing by pushing all thoughts out of her mind, leaving it blank. She was tired of fretting over her appearance.

Taking a deep breath, she got up from the vanity and strode towards the coat she had dispersed on the floor. It had belonged to Cal, who had slipped it on her when Jack was convincing her to get into a lifeboat. Shaking her head at Cal's foolishness, she reached into the pockets and pulled out stashes of money; in the other hand, she pulled out a priceless diamond necklace called the Heart of the Ocean.

It was an engagement present he had given to her one night. When he had put it on around her neck, she felt more suffocated than she already was. It was heavy and gaudy and totally not her style of jewelry. She had no idea what to do with it. If she sold it, she would have enough money to last four lifetimes; but there was also the threat of getting arrested if questioned where it had come from. She came to the decision to keep it, but hide it well.

As for the money, she decided to use it only in emergencies. She knew she had to get a job if she wanted to make a living. The thought of letting Cal's money rule her life left a sour taste in her mouth. She felt disgusted enough, letting him court her and then intentionally try to harm her. If Jack didn't appear in her life sooner, she would've died just being his wife.

Rose's lips twisted into those of hatred. She remembered her mother's constant lectures of the debt her father had left them in, and the arranged marriage with Cal. She thought her heart would've softened when she saw Ruth DeWitt Bukater sobbing at her daughter's death on the deck of the _Carpathia_. However, it was a single glance in Rose's part, and then she walked away, blocking out her mother's cries as best she could. She had been a reason why she was caged.

Snapping out of her reverie, Rose stuffed the money and the necklace back in the coat pocket, hoping it was warmer outside. She quickly slipped out the door and stomped down the stairs, her stomach rumbling from hunger. She hadn't eaten in three days, refusing to eat on the ship. She had only let herself drink tea and water, but that was it. She was surprised her stomach hadn't started eating itself.

Mrs. Johnson was at the front desk, talking to a kind looking man. He had chestnut-colored hair that was clipped above the ear, and soft hazel eyes. He reminded her of a darker version of Jack.

Mrs. Johnson noticed Rose and smiled compassionately. "It's good to see you up and about, Miss Rose," she said, excusing herself from the man and taking Rose's arm. "Henry here would love to show you around New York City." Rose blinked, making no response.

"If you would like to, of course," she added quickly, not wanting to upset her newest customer.

Rose nodded gratefully. "That would be lovely." She tried to smile at Henry, who had bright, cheerful eyes, but she was immune to his contagious air. She let him lead her to the dining room, which was full of pleasant people laughing and smiling. The sight made her stomach twist in disgust. _How could these people be so happy? Don't they know of the tragedy that just happened?_

Henry noticed her discomfort and sat her down at a table far from the chatter. Breakfast was served right when their bottoms hit the seat, and he began to eat at a good pace.

Meanwhile, Rose looked down at her plate as though scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon were new to her. Her stomach churned and rumbled. She was debating whether to dig in hungrily or push the plate aside. Hesitantly, she picked up her fork and took a bite of the egg. She immediately felt sick. The corner of her lips twitched in frustrated, and she put her fork down, defeated.

Henry watched her curiously. He became worried when her face turned green and she put her fork down. "Are you okay?" he asked, concerned.

Rose wanted to nod (after all, she didn't like people taking care of her – especially people she didn't know – except, of course, Jack), but she knew she couldn't. She looked down at her lap, closing her eyes for a few seconds to clear her nausea. She took a deep breath and exhaled audibly. "Honestly, no," she replied, feeling weaker every moving minute. "I haven't eaten in three days, and my stomach isn't used to food right now, I guess."

Henry gulped, putting his utensils down. Rose looked up and pushed her hair behind her ear. He was deep in thought, contemplating his words. Finally, he spoke. "Eat the toast. It's light enough for now. You'll need to slowly build up your eating habits again." He went back to enjoying his meal, leaving Rose at a loss for words.

"Thank you," she mumbled, pulling off a piece of toast with her bony fingers and nibbling on it. The nausea came back, but she fought it by taking another bite. It slowly ebbed away.

When they were finished eating, they sat there in awkward silence. Henry broke the moment – Rose realized that the quiet was making her mind and emotions race – by giving her his hand. "I'm Henry Calvert," he said, introducing himself.

Rose stared blankly at his hand. Trembling, she shook it. "Rose Dawson," she said, a small thrill pricking at her stomach at the sound of the words. Maybe, if Jack had lived, they would have gotten married…

"Are you all right?"

Rose blushed a visible red, realizing she had been trapped in thoughts of _what if?_ "Um...," she stuttered, praising for the right words to come out of her mouth, "I was just thinking." Her eyes darted from him to her barely eaten plate, feeling embarrassed.

He smiled, trying to hide his questions. "What about?" he blurted, making Rose jump and her eyes widen.

"Pardon me?"

It was his turn to blush, not wanting to be rude, after all. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

Rose blinked, picking at her fingernails. She wondered how much she should tell him. "There were no more lifeboats left," she decided to say, locking away her tears. "I was lucky to have survived…"


	2. Chapter 2

After her breakfast with Henry, her words leaving him speechless, they got up soundlessly from the table and walked outside. New York was vibrant with activity, a never-ending land of movement. Neither Rose nor Henry spoke; after all, what was there to say? Rose was convinced she knew nothing of Henry, and Henry understood he knew nothing of Rose. And did they want to know each other? That was a big no in Rose's pretty head.

As they strolled, Rose remembered how she needed a job. However, with her little experience in labor, she needed to start off with something simple, something that required little skill or lots of talent.

Henry started rambling, trying to entertain his young tourist by retelling the history of the city. Rose, having this urge to laugh rudely in his face, nodded at the little she was listening to. Her eyes were fervently searching for a hiring sign. Stopping to look through a window that belonged to a tailor shop, Henry knew he lost the patience of the energetic woman.

"Are you looking for something?" he asked, annoyed at her lack of respect. Rose ignored his obvious resentment and nodded. "Yes, I'm looking for a job," she stated firmly, raising an eyebrow in Henry's direction.

They started walking again. "Is there a certain job you want?" He tried to be polite by hiding his discontentment this time.

Rose shrugged. "Is there a theater around here?"

Henry smirked as they rounded the corner. "Of course," he said, pointing at something in the distance. "Haven't you heard of Broadway?"

Rose followed the direction of his hand and her mouth dropped open. Her blue-green eyes widened in pure excitement. It was everything she imagined it would be, and she glazed over, glossy.

She was about to cry, remembering the conversation of her dreams with Jack, but banished it as best she could. "I've always wanted to become an actress," she explained to Henry as they both headed toward the giant building. "But my mother never let me."

There was a sign on the door that said, "Auditions today for the showing of Shakespeare's _Hamlet_!" with a list of times underneath it. Rose shuddered. It was as though someone had posted it there just for her.

At that moment, Rose had the sense that she was being watched. Eyebrows furrowing, she turned around and saw a shadow in a dark alleyway, one that disappeared as quickly as it had been seen. She shivered, a slight breeze picking up.

"Is something wrong?" Henry asked, his eyes squinting in the direction she was staring at. There was something there… Yet, she couldn't put a finger on what it was.

Rose shook her head, blinking feverishly. "I thought I just saw something, that's all," she explained, pushing Henry aside. She turned around and bit her lip. "I'm going to audition, okay?" It was five minutes until the next round of auditions. Henry nodded, telling her he'll meet her back at the hotel when she was done. Nodding, she watched him walk away. She was about to turn back around when her eyes landed on the dark alleyway again. Was that… a _person_?

Rose shook her head, closing her eyes. "You're dreaming," she said, the figure haunting her mind. "It's not real." Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door.

Broadway was as splendid as it was described. It was perfect, in Rose's mind. Completely impeccable. And soon, if she was successful, it would be the start of her new life.

She didn't notice she was trembling until after she signed in and sat down to wait. It was at that moment that she started to question her sanity. The figure was eerily familiar… and she wanted so much to believe it was Jack Dawson back from the dead.

But it wasn't possible. She was with him when he died. It just didn't add up. Her mind was playing tricks on her.

"Rose Dawson?"

Rose was snapped out of her reverie, and she looked up at a man holding a clipboard. Nerves and anxiety suffocated the room. "Y-yes?" she stammered, her fearlessness slipping away.

The man looked at her as though she was crazy – she wasn't surprised if that was the case. "Honey, it's your turn."

Rose blushed, feeling stupid. "Oh, yes," she replied, thinking of Jack's face. "I'm sorry."

She straightened her back, took a deep breath, and followed him into the wondrous place known as Broadway.

The hallway was lightly illuminated and full of wires and other mechanical contraptions. They were obviously backstage. Her skin prickled, and she suddenly felt cold. The uncomfortable feeling of being watched swirled around. She looked upwards, noticing the metal bridge that connected the lights needed for the stage. Gulping, she closed her eyes and took long, deep breaths. _You're just nervous_, she told herself, scared to open her eyes. _You're just nervous._

"Mrs. Dawson?"

Rose's eyes snapped open, and she felt even more humiliated then before. The director and two producers sat at a long table, giving her confused glances. She jumped, thinking she saw a figure dash across in the back. She wanted to point at it, but she knew they would probably think she was crazy. Instead, she cracked a smile and did her best impression of excitement. One of the producers handed her a script.

"You may begin."

…

Rose left the theater feeling light and excited. She got a standing ovation from the director, who absolutely _adored_ her performance. "You, my dear," he said, excitement dripping from his voice, "have got _talent_." She had never felt so pleased with herself in her whole seventeen years.

However, Ophelia's part was easy. She was confused and depressed and turned insane after her father died. Rose could easily relate to that. Hopefully there would be other characters she couldn't relate to: that way, she could really show them her talent.

He told her to keep an eye out for a letter, saying she will definitely be back for callbacks – if they were even needed. For a second, she thought this was all a dream, for never had she acted -_never_. It was too good to be true.

She turned down an alleyway, giggling and talking to herself happily. She had already accomplished part of the promise she made to her beloved Jack. She was being herself and following her dreams.

Her legs became weak; her knees wobbly. She had to stop before tripping over herself. _Jack_. He was watching over her. Maybe that figure was him, and maybe he only appeared for her. Who else could it be?

Rose, a wet smile appearing on her face, looked up at the sky and whispered, "Thank you, Jack Dawson." Then she continued walking back to the inn, barely containing her excitement to tell Mrs. Johnson and Henry the news.

Unknown to Rose's giddy stance, the shadowy presence was following. In an almost depressing way, it sucked up every single word she said. It burned her face into its eye; it stored her laugh and voice in its ear.

And slowly, it began to fall in love with her.

…

A week later, Rose ran down the stairs so quickly, Henry caught her before her body made impact with the ground. "Is it here? Is it here?" she chanted impatiently, her whole body trembling with adrenaline. Mrs. Johnson laughed, and Henry smiled. Her excitement was contagious.

For the past week, Rose had been making good friends out of Henry and Mrs. Johnson. She told them, out of respect, more of her life, but left out the painful memory of Jack. The wound he had left in her heart had still not healed.

Mrs. Johnson reached into her dress pocket, revealing a letter. Rose squealed and grabbed for it, pulling Henry into a huge hug in the process. "Oh, my God, Henry, it's here!"

Henry laughed, the young girl's happiness making him blush. "Open it!"

Rose did exactly that, ripping open the envelope and fervently reading the contents inside. "'We are pleased to welcome you… Rehearsals are every day from five to eight…,'" Rose read, mumbling and waiting for the words to clarify. Mrs. Johnson and Henry impatiently waited for the conclusion to the letter, also.

Rose's smile widened to the point it was ear to ear. "'We are pleased to announce you will be playing the part of Ophelia in this year's production of _Hamlet_'!" Rose exclaimed, barely able to contain her display of emotion. She jumped up and down, hugging Henry, then Mrs. Johnson, who congratulated her.

The first thing Rose thought of when the news was clear was Jack's face. Her heart began to ache, wishing he was here with her right now. How happy he would've been for her… Was it really almost two weeks since the last time she held his hand, the last time she kissed him? She wanted to tell someone so badly about Jack, but it would be like taking the fresh scab off a wound that needed more time to heal – painful and pointless.

_Oh, Jack,_ she thought instead, suddenly feeling guilty for hugging Henry in such a way. _I wish you were here…_

…

"… And this is your dressing room."

Rose gasped at the beauty of the room. It had a wood-carved vanity with a plush chair, an elegant sofa, and a changing room with a velvet curtain for privacy. The coffee table had a porcelain vase with red and white roses inside. The stage manager, Mr. Gregory, said that on most performance nights, the table overflows with flowers or chocolates from admirers. Rose could already picture it now.

Strangely enough, there was already a flower sitting there: a dark red rose with a thorny stem and black ribbon wrapped around it. There was no card.

Rose wanted to examine it more, but Mr. Gregory interrupted by saying, "The actresses just _love_ the plush seating. Why don't you try your vanity? We strive to make our staff as comfortable as possible." She did as she was asked and took a seat, enjoying the softness of the cushion.

She smiled gratefully. "It's all so wonderful, Mr. Gregory, truly."

He grinned back. "The pleasure is all ours. It's an honor to be working with you, Miss Dawson." He turned around to leave, but stopped, shuffling around with his clipboard. "Letter for you."

Rose's eyebrows furrowed, confused. _Who could possibly be sending me a letter?_ She assumed it was the director.

When Mr. Gregory left, Rose took a good look at the envelope. Her face paled. There was no name, no acknowledgement on who it was. She looked around, feeling watched. "Is anyone here?" she asked, her heart pounding in her ears.

She heard a shuffle, and she gasped. The curtain for the dressing room swayed slightly back and forth. Rose, fear clutching her chest, walked towards it. "Hello?" she asked, pulling the curtain aside. No one was there.

Shaking her head, she walked back to the vanity, sat down, and opened the letter, which was sealed by a wax marking she couldn't identify. Deathly curious, she read the letter carefully, not understanding a single word of it.

It was a newspaper article from the _New York Times_. The date read April 18, 1912. A sick feeling spread in her stomach. It was a story on the _Titanic_, telling how approximately fifteen hundred people perished. There was an interview from Madeleine Astor. Her eyes widened when she caught a glimpse of the handwriting below it. Bile rose in her throat at the familiarity.

"_If I could've saved one life, I'm glad it was yours. Congratulations, Rose… You're living your dream."_

She started to hyperventilate, her breathing coming out in short, audible gasps. Tears swarmed her eyes. She flipped the letter over, looking for a name, but there was none. _Who would dare have the guts to send this?_

It was Jack's handwriting, and it was Jack's words. She read it over and over again, enjoying every last word. When she sniffed it, it even _smelled_ like Jack. It made absolutely no sense, yet she wanted to believe it.

In the silence, there was a whisper. "I love you, Rose…"

That was all Rose could take. Throwing her head down, she started sobbing, choking on her tears. The letter fluttered to the ground, forgotten. She'd been holding them in for too long; it took Jack's ghostly convincing to finally get her to realize she had been pushing him away in the back of her mind, too afraid to confront it.

"Don't cry, Rose… Shh, it'll be all right," the voice said, replicating Jack's exactly. Rose's cries abruptly stopped, and she lifted her head, looking at herself through the vanity mirror. She licked her lips, not wanting to believe she was hallucinating.

"Jack?"

There was no response. It was quiet for a few minutes, and Rose's heart fell. It had all been a figment of her imagination: the letter, the voice, everything.

Wiping her tears, she got up and saw it. The rose was still on the table. When she approached it, there was the sound of paper under her shoe: there was the letter. Hardly believing her Jack really could be back, she grabbed ahold of the rose and took a deep whiff, closing her eyes in content memories of their time together.

"You can tell me anything, Rose," the voice soothed, urging her to spill her secrets. "You know that."

Rose did know that. She didn't even think of the consequences as she sat back down on the vanity and started to ramble on about what had happened to her since she last saw him, telling him about his death and how she got the part for the play.

Meanwhile, without being seen, the shadow watched. Without being heard, it listened. Without making itself shown, it stayed hidden and watched the gorgeous redhead as she started from the beginning, never wanting to let go of her new reality.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks so much for reviewing!**

Ten years came and went, and Rose Dawson became the starlet she always dreamed of becoming. She and the voice became good friends, and she began to truly believe the voice was her Jack in angel form, sent to Earth to protect and propel her forward in life. She told him everything – her secrets, her problems, her feelings. When she needed to talk, he was always there. Her dressing room became her clandestine hideout whenever her and her current boyfriend, Henry Calvert, got in a fight.

And as she talked, giggled, or cried, the voice would listen. He'd grasp every word that came out of her pink lips and give her his best advice, hoping that in the end, everything would be well. Rose would apologize to Henry or vice versa, and she would return home at the apartment complex they shared. She was known to be very gregarious and polite due to the fact she never had a flaw in sight – the voice, whom she named Jack, was always there to help.

In the past decade, Rose's life had drastically changed. She went from being a miserable first-class girl to a middle-class starlet. She dated her best friend since the sinking, Henry Calvert. They survived the horrors of the First World War together, Rose signing up as a nurse and Henry courageously fighting on the side of the Allies. It was as though, to Rose, the _Titanic _had never happened.

Ten years is a long time to forget, after all. But Rose, she never forgot the man who had saved her, in every way a woman can be saved: her beloved Jack Dawson. She was only seventeen at the time, but he _was _her first true love. We all know that your first is very hard to forget. And with the voice making conversation with her, it was _much_ harder for Rose to even stop thinking about her time on the star-crossed voyage.

Now, as an experienced twenty-seven-year-old actress, Rose Dawson had become a well-known name in the area of New York. Her popularity had spread all over New England, and some of the richest families in the world were in the front seats, the men throwing her flowers and the women their lace handkerchiefs. After each show, Rose was beaming, always holding at least two large bouquets of freshly cut flowers. Her co-stars always supplied bright smiles in her direction. She couldn't be happier.

At this particular moment on April 14, 1922, Rose had just finished performing the role of a naughty mistress in one of the new musicals. Exiting the stage, she was greeted with warm smiles and congratulations. Her best friend Katie – short for Katherine – ran up to her and gave her a big hug. "You were wonderful, Rose!" Rose hugged her back, but with much less enthusiasm, and congratulated Katie on her fine performance. She was considered second best to Rose, and Rose didn't feel threatened by her new competitor.

When Katie had arrived, Rose had been working on the stages of Broadway for two years. It was the start of the Great War, and Katie's family had quickly escaped France in a hurry. Katie had spoken very little English, so many ignored her. Back home, she said she was one of the best actresses in her local theater. Thankfully, Rose spoke fluent French, and they soon became inseparable. Henry had joked he was being replaced; he had asked Rose on a date several times, but Rose had denied each offer, saying she couldn't risk her career now that it had started. In her mind, though, she still thought of Jack, and the voice that she spoke to.

Rose still hadn't told Henry about Jack. She wasn't sure if she will ever be able to. She liked the thrill of having a secret no one else knew – except for the voice, of course – and it was a secret that made her heart throb. She was hesitant to accept Henry's hand only because she didn't know what would happen if she got her heart broken twice. She remembered how cold she had turned after Jack's death.

Anyway, throughout the months since Katie's arrival, Rose taught Katie English while Katie showed Rose some of her tricks when it came to theater: remedies on how to be less nervous, the most elegant way to curtsy at the end, how to respond to the perverse men that worked backstage. Whenever there were two female leads, it was always Katie and Rose making the crowd laugh or cry. They became known as the Leading Sisters – because they both shared the same blue-green eyes, the same curly hair (except Katie's was blonde), and close to the same amount of talent. Rose, however, was always one step ahead.

Katie pulled away from their embrace at looked in her friend's eyes, a replica of hers. Compassion glittered in their blue-green irises. "Are you sure you will be okay tonight?"

Rose gulped, having to look away, afraid too much sorrow showed clearly on her expression. "I'll be fine. It was ten years ago anyway." With that, she pushed away and headed to her dressing room, holding her flowers with sweaty palms.

When she opened the door, the table was overloaded with flowers and bouquets. Rose squeezed in the two she was holding, sighing happily at the large bundles. Her hard work always paid off.

Slipping off her shoes, she pulled her hair down from its bun and took a seat at her vanity, staring at her reflection. A single red rose, wrapped with a black ribbon around the stem, sat next to her brush. "You did wonderful tonight," the voice said, and Rose sorrowfully looked down at her lap.

When she finally spoke, her lips and voice were cracked. "Ten years," she said, trying not to cry. "Has it really been ten years since I last saw you?"

The voice was silent, a warm feeling filling the room and wrapping around Rose's bare shoulders. "I've always been here, Rose. _Always_."

Rose started to cry, first with small, silent tears and then with large, sobbing droplets that threatened to overcome her. She put her head on the cold vanity table, her hair falling down her shoulders and arms. She hated showing weakness; she refused to be anything but strong since the marine disaster that shocked the world. That's why she was not only an expert in the acting field, but also when it came to holding back her grief and sorrow.

Slowly, her cries stopped. When she finally looked up, she lifted her head slowly, blinking at her disastrous reflection. Her eyes were red and puffy, her porcelain cheeks stained with tears. Her hair was a giant frizzy mass of red. Her whole body trembled from head to toe. She took a tissue out of the box and started to fervently wipe her eyes. Sneaking a peek at the clock, she swore under her breath. "I'm having dinner with Henry in five minutes." She quickly got off the chair and walked to the changing room, closing the curtain behind her.

"Oh, yes. _Henry_," the voice exasperated, an unpleasant tone.

Rose stepped out of the large box, wearing a new dress. She started to pin her hair up. "You're not jealous, are you?" she asked, brushing out the peevish knots. There was something that unsettled her about his words; they didn't sound like something Jack would say at all.

The voice replied, "No, not at all. It's been ten years since I died and you decide to go off to dinner with your new boyfriend instead of staying with me."

Rose's eyebrows rose offensively. "Stay with you? For all I know, you're just a figment of my imagination." She started doing her eyelashes. Taking a deep breath, she felt guilty for snapping at him. "I'm sorry, it's just…" She stopped what she was doing, knocking the mascara brush on the edge of the table. "I promised you I'd move on, Jack. That's exactly what I'm doing. It doesn't mean I'm going to marry him, it's just –"

"You jump, I jump, remember?" the voice interrupted, echoing across the room. The air turned sour and suffocating. A strange feeling came over Rose, the same feeling she felt when Jack had told her the same words. The voice was giving off a memory.

She stood there, over the vanity, thinking of what to say. Nothing came to mind. Exhaling loudly out of her nose, she grabbed her coat and purse and walked towards the door. "It's been ten years, Jack," she said, biting her lip. "I made a promise."

…

Rose entered the French restaurant, one of the best in the area. She immediately saw Henry, whose eyes crinkled from a big smile on his face. She tried to give one back, but her efforts at a convincing smile were fruitless. "Rose, darling," he said, taking her coat off for her, "you were absolutely stunning tonight."

They sat down and ordered, Rose's mood gradually declining each second. She sat there, arms crossed at her chest, staring into Henry's smiling face. The fire inside her started to erupt. "Do you know what today is, Henry?" she asked, taking a sip of her water. _God, I sound like my mother._

Henry's expression fell, and his eyebrows furrowed. "No," he said, laughing nervously. "Should I?"

Rose's mind started to race frantically, her conversation with Jack making her world spin. "It's been ten years since it happened," she blurted, immediately putting her head in her hands and pleading not to cry.

Henry, however, was clueless. In fact, he was much more concentrated on the expensive piece of jewelry in his pocket. The idea of Rose being his wife filled his brain with air, and his thoughts were never straight. He knew he loved her, but he also knew of her hesitation and desire to wait. He cleared his throat. "Is this about Emma or –"

"No!" Rose snapped, her lips pursed in mourning anger. She sighed and closed her eyes, feeling defeated. She placed her hand on her forehead, memories she tried to forget flooding her pounding head. With a whispery breath she said, "Don't mention her again, Henry."

Henry watched as she got up from the table, collected her coat, and pulled a quarter from her purse, leaving it in front of her uneaten meal. She then started to walk to the exit, reminding him of a broken, elegant swan. He then shook his head and sighed, trying not to be angry at his girlfriend's actions.

Once Rose was outside, the night air biting at her flushed cheeks, she started to run. She had no destination and only the strength to keep running: she was afraid that if she stopped, she would give up right then and there.

Her youthful face haunted her. Her tiny hands, green eyes, and blonde hair. Every day Rose thought of her, yet every day she tried to push her out of her mind. She had to move forward; going back to what had been would only weaken her.

She had enough energy left to grab ahold of the railing presented in front of her. Her knees collapsed, and her hands shook. Her knuckles turning a sickly white color in the moonlight as they gripped on to the cold, metal railing. The air tasted like salt, and Rose closed her eyes, listening to the calming sound of the ocean. Here she was, ten years later, at Pier 54.

Her breathing became ragged as she started to cry again. The sky had been the same as that night, moonless yet full of stars. She could already picture Jack's dead body, frozen and blue, slipping into the sea. She could already picture the youthful face that haunted her every day, that dying face with withered hair and watery eyes.

"She was young!" she screamed, the waves mocking her. "They both were!" Her voice cracked, and she realized how sore her throat was, chapped from the cold. "Why'd you take them away?" she whispered, much more softly.

"Rose!" a feminine voice cried, and soon she felt warm, strong arms wrap around her. It was Henry. Katie's face appeared in front of her, hands on her shoulders. "Are you all right?"

Rose's vision was blurred by her tears. She hadn't realized she had climbed over the rail, and that just made her cry harder. Her muscles relaxed, and Henry took ahold of the back of her knees in bridal position. She was through with being the confident Rose Dawson who was able to wall up her every emotion. She longed to be seventeen years old ago, in his arms and calloused hands, when she had no care in the world.

"I was going to get off the ship with him," she cried, directing it mostly to her ghostly savior. "I promised…"


	4. Chapter 4

**Another update! **

Katie hastily opened the apartment door, rushing inside as Henry, Rose's body in his arms, followed. She smoothly and quickly fluffed the pillows on the nearest couch. "Lay her down here," she said, pulling Rose's hair back as he laid her down.

Rose's tears hadn't stopped flowing since she started. The whole day had left her feeling weak, uncertain, and confused. Ever since she started dating Henry, the voice – her angelic Jack – said things he never would've told her if he was still alive. His tone had changed and become more grizzly and exasperated. The thought of losing Jack again made her cry even harder.

"Will she be okay, do you think?" Katie asked as she pulled up two chairs for her and Henry. Henry's throat felt dry and constricted, so he just shrugged his shoulders. "Today's been such an awful day for her," he said, laying a blanket over Rose's shaking figure.

Katie agreed, her lips pursed. "It's been ten years since the sinking. I can't blame her."

Henry's heart felt a pang of guilt. How could he forget that Rose had been in the worst marine disaster of the century? She had told him the whole story years back, and since _her _death there wasn't much to reflect back on…

The two stayed in complete silence as Rose calmed down. Her nose was a bright red, as though she was sick. She sneezed loudly, then curled up in fetal position and faced the other direction, feeling shameful for her actions.

Katie made some tea and they both stayed quiet until Henry heard the sound of Rose's soft breathing. "Has she been acting… strange lately?" he asked Katie as she handed him a teacup. The sight of the delicately designed porcelain reminded him of Rose; it was her favorite set.

Katie thought for a moment, exhaling a deep sigh. Then she leaned forward, closer to Henry. "Sometimes, I hear her talking in her dressing room. I swear I hear someone answer back, but whenever I politely knock and enter, no one is there except for Rose," she whispered. She rolled her eyes. "I must be hallucinating or something." She took a large sip of her tea, not saying another word.

Henry's heart sank. "Did the voice sound masculine or feminine?"

Katie put a finger to her chin and thought hard for a second. "Definitely masculine," she said, lifting her finger in the air for emphasis. Henry's hopes crashed, and he became desperate to find out who this voice was.

"Katie, is there any important history on the Broadway Theatre?" he asked, suddenly curious.

Katie took another sip of her tea and thought for another minute. "Well, there has been a few murders. One is very common, but it's a long story."

Before Henry could respond, Rose started to stir. She turned around so her sleeping face was visible, and he could sadly see tear stains on her cheeks. Her eyelid twitched a little, and her arms still shivered. It was as though something was haunting her.

When she made no motion of waking up, he looked directly in Katie's eyes. "We've got time."

…

Henry sent Katie home that night feeling no more informed than he did before. Katie had started to explain that many of the murders involved actresses who were dating the men backstage, probably accidental when the men were drunk. She was about to explain the story about the famous actress Lisette Leblanc, but was interrupted by Rose's waking grumbles. "Are you still here, Katie?" she asked, her face pale. Her eyes were squeezed shut as though she had a headache, and she rubbed her brow.

Katie looked at her friend with calm eyes. "It seems as though I forget the story," she said, eyeing Henry. "I'm sorry, Henry."

As she got up to leave she gave Rose a warm smile. "Get better soon, Rose. We can't afford you being sick!" Rose managed to give a small grin of acknowledgement, and Katie opened the door and left.

Henry stayed silent, deep in thought. The story of the murders – hangings and poisons – made him cringe. How could something so horrific happen in such a magical place.

Rose sighed and shimmied up on the couch, pulling the blanket around her. Henry went to fetch her some tea. "Did I hear Katie mention Lisette Leblanc?" she asked when he came back.

He nodded, handing her the teacup on his just as beautiful plate. Rose took a sip, her face a pasty white. "I heard about her. I don't know much besides the fact she was very talented and murdered in the theater."

Henry didn't respond. He glared at Rose, wondering what her secrets were. Could she be hiding the fact she was having an affair? The corner of his mouth twitched. Everything about her made him weak, yet some things just made him so angry.

"Rose, do you have other friends at the theater other than Katie?" he asked, hoping the question didn't sound too suspicious.

"Yes. Why?"

"Katie told me you talk to a man in your dressing room. Is that true?"

Rose became very still, not even flinching. She stared at Henry, but her gaze wasn't focused on him; she was elsewhere. Her chest rose and fell, and then she broke her trance. She stirred her tea with the spoon in her delicate hand. "I wish I can tell you, Henry, but it'll just make me sound crazy."

Henry stood up suddenly, leaving a cold feeling in the pit of Rose's stomach. Fresh memories of Cal's abusive nature made her heart quicken; was Henry everything she thought he was? Did he have the capability of hurting her?

Instead of doing the outrageous, he clenched his fists and walked into his bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind him. Rose stared at the door for five minutes. She kept telling herself, _Now's your chance. Go now!_

Darting out of the couch, she ran to the door, opening it loudly and running down the hallway. The carpet was soft beneath her bare feet. She could feel her body getting weaker as she ran, reaching the stairs that would lead down to the main floor which contained the exit. She didn't notice she was sobbing until she felt a strong hand take ahold of her wrist, pulling her back.

"No!" she cried, her mind replaying Cal's furious words as he tried to pull her away from Jack. The strong hold on her arm kept pulling her closer, until she was wrapped into a warm hug. She pictured Jack's protective arms around her frightened body as the ship sank from under them. Tears clouded her vision; everything that happened around her only brought up a memory of ten years ago.

"I'm so sorry, Rose," Henry's voice said, soothingly rubbing her back. "You know I can never hurt you. You can trust me."

Rose's stomach turned sour. His words reminded her of the voice, speaking to her in the same exact fashion whenever she was upset. "Let go of me!" she mumbled, starting to pull away. His grip slackened, and she managed to run away again, stumbling down the stairs.

Henry watched as she ran. He wanted so badly to follow her, but there was something wrong with her tonight; he thought it had something to do with the _Titanic_. Being the worrier he was, he ran back into the apartment building and picked up the phone, noticing the time on the clock: 2:10 a.m.

Meanwhile, Rose's feet ached and bled from the hard concrete. It was just as cold as the night the ship had sank, making her tears freeze against her cheeks. The frigid night air pinched her skin, reminding her of looking for the lifeboats, but only finding that there were none left. The memories flooded her brain, making it pound and ache, making Rose want to scream until she couldn't anymore.

She opened the entrance doors with tremulous fingers, yanking it open and running through the door she had first entered those ten long years ago. She dodged the wires expertly, only getting caught once, but barely noticing the darkness or the ghostly atmosphere.

When she reached her dressing room, she walked in with tears pouring down her face, collapsing on the carpeted floor. "Jack!" she cried, his smiling face swarming her vision. "Jack, talk to me, please!"

She held her breath, but the room was so silent, the air so still. She got up and silently walked towards the couch, sitting down. Rose's mouth began to quiver and she sniffled some more. "Jack," she whined, putting her head in her hands.

She waited five minutes for a response, but nothing spoke to her. It was the first time the voice had ever betrayed her.

Rose was about to leave when she saw a strange yellow light in the middle of the room. Curious, she studied it from afar for a minute, but it made no motion. It was just a small glowing ball of light. Sniffling, she walked over to it and gave it a trembling hand. Her fingers went right through, but the air inside it was warm.

It started to form a head, then a body. Rose wasn't the type to believe in spirits or ghosts, but in times of need she would believe anything. The light condensed into a young man she knew very well – a smiling, blond-haired and blue-eyed twenty-year-old named Jack Dawson.

For a moment she thought she was dreaming. Then, he moved towards her, making no sound. Her smile was wide and bright. He was surrounded by a halo of yellow dust. Rose's hands clenched the blanket around her shoulders. She made no move towards it for she couldn't believe what she saw.

Then her eyes started to tear up, and the angel of Jack Dawson gave her his hand. It wasn't cold or blue, and its wrist was free of a handcuff. All these years he has been okay, not decomposing at the bottom of the North Atlantic.

She slowly put out her hand, the warm, melting feeling of love spreading over her pounding heart. She remembered the last time she felt this way: on the bow of the ship with Jack, and a few times with Henry.

The figment took her hand and pulled her close. Rose couldn't believe her eyes. She pulled away, suddenly feeling dizzy. Her knees wobbled and buckled; she landed on her back on the couch.

There were no words left to be said. As the angel stroked her hair and lulled her to sleep, she kept whispering "I love you," over and over again. The words felt natural on her tongue.

"I kept your promise…" It was the last thing she said to him before she fell into a deep, unperturbed sleep. The clock read 2:20 in the morning of April 15, 1922.

…

"Rose?"

Katie knocked on the dressing room door. A disheveled, panicked, and concerned Henry had called her, saying that Rose had run off somewhere and he was afraid she might do something stupid. He then continued to explain that they had gotten in an eccentric fight, and he didn't want to stress her out more than she already was.

She found the door unlocked and put her hand on the knob. "Rose?" she reiterated, peaking her blonde head through the door. What she saw made her smile.

Rose was fast asleep on the couch, a red blanket wrapped around her. Something else caught her eye, however, that made her eyebrows rise in wonder. As she stepped toward her friend, she thought, _Is this some trick of the light or is she… glowing?_

In Katie's eyes, it looked as though Rose was surrounded by a yellow light. Strangely enough, and much to her disappointment, it disappeared when she took another step closer. Frowning, she felt a cold shiver run down her spine. The room suddenly felt gloomy and uncomfortable.

"_Beware… Beware…"_

"Rose," she whispered, reaching down and touching her friend's shoulder. _Is she in… pain?_ Katie's mouth dropped open in surprise. Rose's once smiling, untouched face had turned sweaty with uncontrollable convulsing. "Possessed by the devil!" she cried, taking a step back and searching for some water. She saw a flower vase full of dark red roses, the thorns uncut. She ripped down out, ignoring the bloody cuts on her finger, and threw it in Rose's direction.

"_Beware of Joseph Cu–"_

Rose woke with a start, taking a loud gasp as though she had stopped breathing. She sat up, and Katie's face blanched. Her eyes, which she could recognize with a glance (since they were a replica of hers), were dilated and glowing red. With a scream, Katie took another step back, tripping on a chair leg and falling down with an _oomph_.

"Katie!" Rose exclaimed, getting up and towards her side. As she dared to look into her eyes, Katie was relieved to see the abnormal red slowly fading away, and in its place the normal of a blue-green shade. "What happened? Are you all right?"

Katie swallowed and put her hand to her beating heart. It was shaky and pounding hard. "Yes, I'm fine," she croaked, even though she was shaken. _Maybe I was just hallucinating…_ "And you? How are you?"

Rose smiled sadly, a sweet and innocent smile. Her eyes were clouded with a darkness Katie couldn't recognize. "Katie," Rose sighed, taking her hand and leading her to the couch, "there's something I should've told you a long time ago…"


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: I'm planning for this story to be more than ten chapters long, but less than twenty. I'm not really expecting this to be long at all. Enjoy, and please review!**

* * *

Rose couldn't help but cry as she confessed to Katie the secret she'd kept for ten whole years, of Jack and their time on the _Titanic _together. But no matter how much she trusted Katie, she couldn't tell her about the Voice. The thought of her face after explaining to her that someone – presumably Jack – would congratulate after each show, talk to her when she was bored or had a fight with Henry, and leave her alone when she wanted to be alone. He was never there, but she felt him. There were times when she literally felt a pair of arms wrap around her shoulders, arms made of air – and she wouldn't even flinch.

But lately something seemed different with the Voice. Mentioning her love life, even when it was about her and Jack, was out of the question. If she happened to let Henry's name slip, the air around her would turn cold. And then the Voice would go on to proclaim, in a tone completely unlike Jack's, and that was more harsh and rough, about how she didn't respect how they felt for each other; how their time together was wasted.

And of course Rose felt guilty. But she never questioned the Voice, even when he was someone entirely different Jack. Sometimes she felt like she was losing the person she fell in love with ten years ago…but then he would be the same the next day, and she would forget about their differences. To her, he was always Jack. Her world, for a decade, revolved around Jack, Jack, Jack.

After Katie heard the story, she held a weeping Rose in her arms, a crinkled expression on her face. The story was bittersweet with a tragic ending, but she couldn't help but inquire about their love affair. It was so brief and lasted only three days; could two people really fall in love that fast?

The truth was Rose was obsessed. She couldn't let go of the man who had saved her from a tortuous life with Cal. And for that she would forever be grateful. But that doesn't mean there wasn't a limit. She had gone too far.

For the Voice knew now that he could control her. He could do exactly what he had been doing to women for the past half a century – something he couldn't reveal. It was the only way they could be together; in truth, the spirit had become obsessed with Rose like she had fallen under his spell.

But he was angry all the time. She didn't love him for him; she thought he was some lover who'd died ten years ago. He knew exactly who he was, for he could visit him anytime disguised as some person named Bart Cartmell. And he could replicate his voice, his memories, and even the way he looked; all for the sake of getting on Rose's good side. All because he was falling in love with her, but for the wrong reasons.

…

Katie led Rose home after she had convincingly cleaned herself up at the vanity mirror, reapplying her makeup and dabbing at her red eyes until they were mostly white again. She had little to say; for what was there to say? Rose had given her information that had been hidden for a decade, and Katie was sure that that wasn't the only secret Rose was keeping.

Henry was waiting impatiently in the living room when Rose walked in, sniffling through her guilt. She tried to hold a dignified expression that says, "I'm fine, so don't bother me with your sympathy," but she failed miserably. He knew right away that something was wrong.

"Rose!" he cried softly, pulling her into his arms. She could do nothing but give in, letting him hold her like that. Inside she was a mess, because lately she could feel the Voice's moods. And now he was irritable and not happy. "Where have you been? Are you all right?"

Rose pulled away and smiled slightly as she placed her shaky hands on his arms. "I'm fine," she said, trying to keep the content appearance on her face that she just mustered. "I fell asleep in my dressing room. I've been so exhausted lately, with rehearsals and everything." She then had to turn away before her neutral mood would slip, calmly replacing her feigned expression with that of the former as she walked to the kitchen. She grabbed an apple out of the bowl on the table and rubbed its shiny red skin, the color reminding her of the roses the Voice would give her after every show.

"You were stunning," he would say in Jack's exact voice. Those were the only times when she felt at her best, knowing that he was always there when she needed him. Despite her close bond with Henry, he was the only person – or thing – she could trust fully without being criticized.

Henry came up behind her and easily pried the fruit out of her hand, replacing it in the bowl. "Then get some rest," he whispered soothingly, and the guilt came rushing back to Rose. The guilt that ate her, for she always felt like talking to the Voice was like cheating on Henry. He had been so supportive of her since their meeting ten years ago, and now she had the courage to have him as a boyfriend.

Then if she had everything she wanted in the world, why was she so unhappy?

Rose sighed deeply, and Henry noticed how fatigued she was; it looked like she aged in that one second he had blinked. With the courage he was able to muster, he gently grabbed her elbow and led her away to the bedroom, where he sat her down. That unseeing look in her eyes made him worry, but he pushed it aside as weariness and the energy that must've been drained from the fact that it had been ten years since Rose had been on the "unsinkable" ship.

He waited a couple minutes to see if she asked him for anything, but when she made no response, it was his turn to sigh and walk away, finally giving up with her ever talking to him. He was on his way out the front door when someone called his name.

"Henry!" Rose exclaimed, appearing in the hallway. They only stared into each other's eyes, and for a second Rose's words were knocked out of her. She smiled timidly, her cheeks raging red. "Good night," she eventually said.

Henry grinned weakly. "Good night," he responded.

Rose felt her confidence boosting. "Sweet dreams," she teased, causing his lips to turn up at the corners.

He glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. "As to you."

She watched him disappear down the steps before closing the door and retiring to bed, fresh memories of the _Titanic _keeping her up all night.

…

It had been a week now since Rose's dilemma, and she was back to being her regular self. However, the Voice was still acting strange, and she could do nothing but listen to its complaints as she played around with the fresh bouquet Henry had bought her earlier that day.

Rose was snapped back to the present when a voice yelled, "Action!" She cleared her throat and held her head high. The theater was putting on an opera, and Rose was just barely able to sing the high notes. She had always been a sweet sounding soprano, but lately her song lacked the strength it needed as she squeaked out another weak syllable.

The director disappointedly shook his head and waved his hands to stop the orchestra. His eyes burned into Rose, making her face turn hot. "When are you going to get your act together, Rose? The show is in two weeks!"

All of a sudden the room felt very hot and she could feel the spirit inside her getting angry. "I just haven't been feeling well lately," she stammered, her mouth turning dry. She refused to let the ball of fury in her gut rupture. "But I'll pull myself together, I promise."

Henry, in the producer's seat, eyed Rose warily. She hadn't been the same since last week, and everyone noticed it. Even Katie asked him how she doing, her pretty violet eyes scrunched up in worry. They all knew how important this role was for Rose, and they didn't want her to blow it.

The next time the music started to play, Rose started to feel strange. Something inside of her snapped, and if anyone could see her eyes, they would've seen the dark hint of red hidden in her normally blue-green irises. She raised her hand in the air, silently beckoning for the rehearsal to stop. "I need a break," she stated simply before walking stiffly off the stage, the hem of her dress weighing her down.

Henry watched on, alarmed, as the corner of the director's mouth twitched. He rushed after her, gripping her arm. "Rose!" he hissed. "What are you doing?"

When she twirled around, the stubborn look still remained in her once innocent eyes. Henry gasped at what he saw; he swore he was dreaming. But before he could get a closer look, she had whirled back around and stomped away.

Upon reaching her room, Rose called for the Voice to speak to her. "Why won't you leave me alone?" she whined as the red glint disappeared. "The show is coming up, and I need to be spotless!" She started powdering her nose furiously. "That man from Hollywood is coming. This is my big break." She looked at her pathetic reflection before closing her eyes in pain. She sighed audibly and turned around, staring at the empty room. "Please don't ruin it for me," she whimpered.

The room remained silent for a few minutes as Rose tried to relax. When the Voice finally spoke, it had a head full of mischief. "It's not me you should be worried about."

…

Rose was more than furious: She was utterly upset. "W-why would Katie do that?" she whined angrily. The Voice had said that while Rose was stumbling up and making mistakes, she was flirting with and bribing the director. As Rose's understudy, Katie wanted nothing but the lead role.

The Voice didn't answer, and Rose felt completely alone.

Figuring she had a long enough break, she exited the dressing room and stopped before striding onto the stage. She cleared her throat, took a calming deep breath, and concentrated only on her goal for the evening: Being perfect.

She opened her dainty mouth and sang her lines to her best ability, getting a delighted comment from the director. When Katie ran up to her and exclaimed, "That was great, Rose!" she just walked right past her while fixing her powdered wig, leaving her friend confused and hurt.

Rose locked her dressing room shut, the emotions inside her boiling into madness. With eyes red as blood, she kicked the door and tore the room apart from the seams. The vase shattered to piece on the floor, the water soaking the carpet; it looked like the flowers were crying. The jewelry box went crashing into the wall, the earrings and necklaces flying everywhere. By the time she was done, the redness disappeared from her blue-green irises, and she picked up the red rose with the black ribbon around the thorns from the vanity table with sad eyes.

"I wish I can see you, Jack," she whimpered, closing her eyes as a silent tear slid down her cheek. She didn't even notice when a thorn pricked her finger, and a drop of blood dissolved into the plush carpet.

A faraway voice began to sing in the distance, and Rose slowly opened her eyes as she made out the words. "Come, Josephine, in my flying machine, and it's up she goes… Up she goes…"

Though her heart was beating quickly, her reaction time was slow when she saw the figure appear in the floor-length mirror in the corner of the room. He had dirty-blond, overgrown hair and piercing blue eyes; whenever he smiled, the corners of his mouth would crinkle up; and he wore the same thing he had on the night he died ten years ago.

Rose, frozen to the core, let the flower drop from her weak fingers. Her knees felt like they were going to collapse from under her, and she couldn't stop herself from taking one step in front of the other toward the mirror.

"Balance yourself like a bird on a beam… In the air she goes, there she goes…," he sang, and Rose could see his lips—the ones she had kissed multiple times—mouth each word.

By the end of the melody, the only thing keeping Rose away from her Jack was the barrier of glass that seemed to melt. He gave her his hand, and she took one step in—and he was solid. Completely and clearly a human body. She smiled as he led her away down the dark hallway only lit by candlelight, entwining his fingers in hers.

Little did Rose know she was being deceived, and he wasn't her Jack at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading and reviewing! I didn't proofread this chapter (I'm in a rush), so excuse any spelling or grammatical errors until I can fix them later.**

* * *

"Rose?" Henry knocked on the door a second time, but there was no sound. "Rose?" he tried again. However, his hand slipped on the handle, and the door proved easy to open.

There was no one in there. The only thing resembling that a human had been in here was the room that was torn apart. There was the vanity, looking a bit disorganized. There was the body-length mirror that always stood in its rightful spot. But where was Rose?

"Katie!" Henry called, trying to hold in his panic. No windows, no other exits... That he knew of. Where could she have gone? "Katie!" he cried again.

"What is it?" Katie panted as she ran into the room, hoop skirt in tow. She glanced around the dressing room. "Where's Rose?"

…

The corridor was cold and damp, and the only sign of light that kept them from walking into walls was the golden candelabras hanging by hooks. "What is this place?" Rose asked, tightening her grip on his hand.

The voice—or should she call him Jack?—pushed aside a dangling piece of moss that dripped from the ceiling. "I'm not so sure myself."

"Then can you at least tell me where we're going?" she asked weakly as it seemed to get darker and darker down the hallway. She rubbed her numb arms and shivered, pulling herself closer to the surprisingly warm body.

When they reached the darkest point and stopped, Rose looked back. They had traveled so far, the mirror entrance was nothing but a speech in the distance. Her blue-green eyes then turned their gaze back on Jack.

"I want you to close your eyes," he said. Rose's heart skipped a beat. It had to be him… It couldn't be anyone else…

"First, Jack, I want to ask you something," she interrupted. Swallowing the lump in her throat, and said, "There would be no record of you on the ship. But you obviously didn't make it out. If you're not dead, then… What are you?"

Jack shrugged and took her other hand. "A guardian angel, I guess."

Rose bit her bottom lip. "I didn't think angels were solid." A smirk appeared on his lips.

"I can be whatever you want, Rose." She was still a little dubious, but she decided now was not the right time. This was the first time in ten years she had seen Jack—excluding their meeting in the dressing room last week. He licked his lips. "Can you close your eyes now?"

Rose let a smile escape and her eyes fluttered shut. He had his hand encased in hers, the other on the small of her back as he led her passed a curtain. They were somewhere different now. It was warm and it felt like there was a sun beating down on her neck. Somewhere with…a breeze.

And a rail. She felt the smooth metal rod under hands, her closed eyes replaying the memory of her adolescence. The time when she had flown; the time when she had been set free.

"Jack?" she laughed. "What are you doing?"

"Just wait," he replied. "Step up on the rail."

Rose took a step with her bare feet,—she had taken her shoes off in the dressing room—her toes holding on tightly to the rail. It was almost surreal; were they on the bow of a ship?

The next step was expected for Rose: He spread her arms out wide. And then he put his hands on her waist, and told her to open her eyes.

But this time, it was more amazing. The sun was setting in brighter hues, the wind was blowing at a gentler breeze, and the air was warmer, not so cold. "Jack!" she exclaimed. "This is better than I remember it!"

He laughed. "Do you want me to say it, or you?"

Rose smiled and laughed. "I'm flying!" she giggled, letting herself fall into his arms as she couldn't make the laughter stop.

His serious blue eyes looked deep into hers. "You kept your promise, Rose."

…

Henry was becoming frantic. "What do you mean, there are no other exits besides the door?" he spat, his hair ruffled. "Look, I saw her go in, and I didn't see her come out. What other explanation is there?" Frustrated, he squeezed the bridge of his nose. Katie put a comforting hand on his back.

The carpenter shrugged. "I helped build this place, including that room," he said with a New Jersey accent. "Unless you can get through that mirror in the corner."

Henry's eyes shot up. "Mirror? What mirror?" He skimmed through the room rapidly before walking over and pointing at the full-length mirror. "You mean _this _mirror?"

"Yeah," the carpenter said, flicking the glass. "It has no wheels and its hung on the wall. Tried to remove it, but wouldn't budge." He then pointed out the dark crack in the side. "I think this here is your answer."

Gulping, Henry put his fingers through the black gap and pushed it to the side. It opened with ease. "What is this?" he whispered, taking a step inside.

Katie came up behind him, her hand going for his elbow. "I don't know," she replied, "but Rose never told me about this before."

They traveled the length of the corridor, getting darker and darker. Henry abruptly stopped, and Katie tripped right into him. She didn't like the sudden darkness. "What is it, Henry?" she panted, her lips becoming dry.

Henry took another step forward and reached his hand out. "This is strange," he said, taking another step.

"What is?" she insisted, her blood pounding in her ears.

He cocked his head to the side, his hand feeling damp stone. "This is a dead end."

…

Meanwhile, Jack and Rose were strolling down the promenade deck, just like they had done ten years ago. "Jack, this is amazing!" she exclaimed, twirling around. "It's just like it was a decade ago!"

Except for the miniscule population, that is. In fact, the whole ship was abandoned. No one was at the wheel when they crossed the bridge, and Rose was tempted to go down to the boiler rooms and see if anyone was shoveling coal down there. "But it seems a little sad," she went on, leaning against the rail to look down at the bobbing ocean. A frown was etched in her face. "Almost like… No one is here."

Jack placed his shoulder against hers. "That's because we're the only ones." Rose didn't like the sound of that—it made her feel like the people of the _Titanic _were gone, forgotten. He noticed her lengthening sadness. "It's only a figment, Rose." He put an arm around her shoulder. "It's not even real."

Rose pushed him away. When she did so, something twitched inside her—that annoying spirit of fury. For a moment in Jack's eyes, she saw it, too, but it was immediately dissipated by concern. "Then how do I know _this _isn't real?" she yelled. "H-how do I know that _you _aren't just some dream?" She had to look away from his eyes, those dazzling blue irises, as tears pricked at her. "I've had dreams like this before, Jack. And I've woken up to nothing but disappointment."

"What do you want me to do, Rose?" he whispered, coming up slowly behind her.

She shrugged and took a deep breath, rubbing her temples as her eyes captivated the depression of what it was like to wake up from such pleasant dreams—and realizing they were just nightmares. "Just tell me that this is real. That you're real, a-and… Where we are is real."

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, nuzzling into her hair. "This is real, Rose," he whispered, putting his hands over hers. "I'm real."

…

Henry and Katie emerged from the corridor feeling nothing but brow-furrowing confusion. "What did you find?" the carpenter asked, getting up from the sofa and stepping over the overturned table.

Katie looked into Henry's eyes, taking a deep breath. "I don't know," Henry responded, his knees shaking so bad he had to sit down. "There was just…a dead end."

After paying and thanking the carpenter, the two friends sat in Rose's room, locking the door. "She'll have to appear sometime," Henry sighed while cleaning up the broken flower vase. It was the bouquet of fresh flowers he had given her before; inside, his heart ached, but on the outside he was just a normal, concerned lover.

"We just stay in her, then?" Katie said, helping him turn the table back over. He nodded, and when the two were done tidying up Rose's dressing room, they sat across from each other to talk.

"When I first met Rose, she looked so broken," he reminisced, thinking of the shattered expression on her face. He sighed and comforted himself on the sofa, shifting around. "But who could blame her? No one should have to go through that tragedy." With that, he took a sip of the brandy he brought.

Katie swallowed the increasing lump in her throat. Rose told her everything about Jack, and then begged with eyes full of desperation to not tell anyone. Apparently, she had kept it a secret for ten long years. "She didn't happen to tell you what happened, did she?"

Henry thought of how to respond to the question thrown at him. "Well, not exactly," he replied. "She only managed to tell me that she was still on the ship when all the lifeboats had gone, and she went down with it. I assume she was one of the lucky survivors to be saved from the water."

"And did she ever mention it after that?"

He shook his head. "I thought she needed some time, so I didn't question her. But when she got her first successful role—which surprised me, with someone who lacked training—we both forgot about it. And then war came in Europe, and the _Titanic w_as forgotten."

Katie sighed. "I remember that," she whispered. "It was terrifying."

Henry's eyes became clouded. "You should've been in the trenches," he said, shuddering. "I think my biggest fear was going over the top."

She lifted her haunting eyes to his. "Did you ever have to?"

There was a prolonged silence that filled the room. "Once," he finally replied. "I was the only one to make it out…"

Katie decided not to question him any further, and she changed the topic by asking him about her role in the opera, feeling guilty for ever feeling like her life was terrible—after all, look at what Henry and Rose had been through. Katie herself had almost signed up to be a nurse, but she was glad Rose talked her out of it—but then she went instead.

Once that conversation was over with, Katie brought up the subject of Rose again. "You've been dating for almost ten years," she said, her fingers entwining in her short blond hair.

A small smile appeared on Henry's lips. "I might change that..." An excited glint appeared in Katie's eyes.

…

Rose gasped. "This is just how I remember it!" She awed over her old suite, running over to the Monet she had hung over the fireplace. She then turned around and let her hands run over the soft upholstery of the sitting room's couch.

There was even fresh tea in the pot on the table! "Amazing!" she gaped. "Can I drink this?"

Jack nodded, and she took a sip, the warm sensation going down her throat. "Lots of good memories in here…," he joked right at that moment.

Rose could feel herself choke on the hot tea, and she put the cup down and started to cough. "Yes," she croaked when she could finally manage to talk. "Nude, um…drawings."

He chuckled as Rose blushed, a pleasant quietness captivating the room. "Do I have to go back?" Rose eventually laughed, plopping down on the plush sofa.

Jack smiled sadly. "Soon," he said. Then he sighed. "I'm sorry you can't stay here, Rose. But I can't stay down here forever."

Tears started to form in Rose's eyes. "I understand." But she was grateful to see him again after so many years. She forced a grin on her face. "I don't want to, but… I guess I'll go back now."

…

Henry's face couldn't have gotten redder as Katie fawned over the ring. "Henry, this is _gorgeous_!" She ogled over the piece of diamond jewelry. "Rose is going to love this!"

"That's enough," he laughed, taking it out of her hands and slapping the top shut. "It isn't a toy." He stuffed it safely in his pocket.

Katie pouted. "But I wasn't done fawning over it!" she wined. She giggled and let a smile from on her face. "Really, Henry, it's exquisite."

He was about to respond when a sudden lethargic feeling overcame him. "When did it get so…" He yawned, interrupting his sentence. "…tiring?"

Katie rose her eyebrows in confusion, but then she felt it, too. "I don't know." Her mouth opened wide in a yawn. "But I suddenly feel…" Her body fell sideways on the sofa, her eyes fluttering shut. "Sleepy…," she mumbled before a snore escaped her lips.

Then Henry fell asleep too, and the sound of heels on a stone hallway was heard echoing in the padlocked room.

…

"Will I ever see you again?" Rose asked mournfully as her hand grazed the handle of the door that would lead her back to her dressing room. She honestly didn't want to go back.

Jack smiled hopefully. "Of course, Rose." He then dropped his voice to a whisper. "Come to your dressing room at nine next month, on the fifteenth of May."

Rose nodded affirmatively. "I'll be there." And she smiled widely before slipping through the door and whispering, "Good night, Jack."


End file.
